Harry Potter and the Leprechaun's Stone
by the queen of slurking
Summary: A direct parody of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. T for mild language, because I'm paranoid.


**Harry Potter and the Leprechaun's Stone**

**A parody**

Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived

*Neighbourhood meeting* I, Vernon Dursley, being of reasonably sound mind, am perfectly normal and quite proud to say so.

*Neighbourhood meeting* I, Petunia Dursley… oh sod it. What he said.

*Pours tea, cuts cake*

Neighbour #7: So Vernon, how's the new office supplies company coming along?

Vernon: Oh, there was a scary moment when I thought we'd folded, but it was a false alarm.

*All laugh uproariously*

Vernon: After all, we don't hold with such nonsense. We don't do anything remotely interesting or creative, let along strange. Partly because I don't believe in imagination, and presumably my wife just goes along with it to keep the peace, and partly because I have the very self-centred belief that if I don't want something to exist, IT DOESN'T.

Petunia: It's true. There was this one time when Vernon thought the teapot was mocking him, so he knocked it over the top of the bench and it smashed. It stopped mocking him after that.

Neighbours #4 and 8 *admiring/envious*: Oh Vernon, you're so intelligent! Petunia, your husband is so wonderful!

Petunia *smugly* I know.

*Meeting finishes; everyone returns home*

*back at home*

Vernon *smugly satisfied* We have everything anyone could ever want, ever in the history of ever. We're so lucky, because our son is becoming a spoilt brat, which is just wonderful and he's not yet two years old.

Petunia: There's just one teeny-tiny problem. See, I'm not the only child I pretend to be; I have a sister, but she and her husband are so unlike us they're practically members of another world. They have a son too, about little Dudley's age, but I hate to think what might happen if they were ever in the same room. My nephew is probably going to be just like my sister, but I still don't want to run the risk that my son could catch the magic. 'Cause things like magic are totally contagious and even five minutes of exposure will cause it to spread around – wait why the hell did that never happen to me?

*a dull grey Tuesday morning*

Dursleys *wake up*

Vernon *picks out very boring tie for work*

Audience *questions what is so boring about this tie, is it just one colour which makes it boring or is there some secret detail which makes it boring?

Petunia *gossips, apparently to Dudley as she puts him into his high chair*

Large, tawny owl: I AM FLYING PAST YOUR WINDOW.

Nobody *notices*

Vernon *Kisses wife, leaves for work, laughs about son being spoilt brat*

Tabby cat *Is reading the map that does not exist on the corner of Privet Drive; progresses to an in-depth analysis of the sign saying Privet Drive despite the fact that there is no other meaning or knowledge*

Vernon *stares at cat*

Tabby cat *Stares back, wins the staredown because cats are champions are staredowns and will always win so trying to get one over them is pointless*

Vernon *drives on*

*On the edge of town*

People *cluster around, having the nerve to wear such clothes as cloaks and robes which is completely horrifying and astonishing and interesting which means that in no way is this acceptable*

Vernon *is enraged*HOW DARE THESE PEOPLE WEAR CLOAKS THEY SHOULD ALL BE WEARING REAL CLOTHES. THEY HAVE A LOT OF NERVE WALKING AROUND WEARING CLOAKS, THEY ARE SURELY UP TO SOMETHING NEFARIOUS.

People *ignore; sensibly go about their business*

Cloaks *in a way, we are foreshadowing. Kind of*

Vernon: *gets to work, sits in office*

People *apparently have nothing better to do than stand on street corners for several hours, do they not have anyone else to talk to or places to go?*

One million owls *go swooping all over Great Britain, people stare and point open-mouthed because they have never seen owls before which is kind of understandable but surely after a few minutes the novelty wears off and you can get back to what you were doing*

Vernon *miraculously remains owl-free, although this is likely due to the fact that owls were not yet visiting people indoors which is kind of a pity if you've ever seen Hedwig*

Office people #1 through #5 *get yelled at, presumably because Vernon just likes to hear the sound of his own voice*

Vernon *phone calls, shouts himself hoarse and does not recover voice for five years*

Vernon *goes to get some exercise by getting something from the bakery, which while nice does defeat the purpose a bit and stuff*

People *are still in cloaks, still milling around* whisper, whisper. We are EXCITED about something and stuff. We are not collecting for a charity. Let us strike fear into thy heart, Dursley!

Vernon's heart *is fear-stricken*

People: something something, the Potters, I heard, something.

Other people: something, yes, Harry, their son, something.

Vernon *stops in his tracks, terrified by the mention of a baby he's presumably never met owing to his wife's horribleness. Looks at the whisperers, possibly about to say something, but because they are wearing Terrifying Cloaks O' Doom he refrains and scampers back to his office*

*back at office*

Vernon *thoughtfully strokes mustache, which suggests to audience that he tried to grow a beard and it didn't work, so he settled for a mustache instead. That or he felt mustaches were more normal and respectable than beards*

Vernon: I'm being stupid, not for the first time in ever. Potter is a very common name, as is Harry. *Opens birth register* see, in 1980 there were fifty-one males born in Great Britain named Harry Potter. It's rather strange, now that it's 1981 and there are fifty-one Harry Potters in the immediate world, but I'm sure all the gossip relates to one of them. Now, I indeed have never met the boy, and… what's his name again? Might not be him at all.

*thinking* Will not mention to Petunia, will not mention to Petunia.

*cannot concentrate on paper at all, which suggests that once upon a time he could, and this shows how boring he is because paper is not the most fascinating subject, unless it has pretty decorations, and even then that's pushing it*

*Five o'clock*

Tiny old man who might be Professor Flitwick *is apparently waiting right outside the door, why we shall never know. It is a MYSTERY, which causes Dursleys to facepalm and shiver in fear. Either way, Tiny Old Man is nearly knocked over*

Vernon *as insincerely as possible

Tiny old man who is wearing a violet Cloak O' Doom and might be Professor Flitwick: You almost knocked me over, but it's fine! *Smiles* you see, matey-mate, You-Know-Who is gone! Nothing in ever will upset me today, even the loss of an apparent favourite student, so don't worry, be happy! Even though you're a Muggle and will know stuff-all about You-Know-Who, go and celebrate!

Tiny old man who is wearing a violet Cloak O' Doom and might be Professor Flitwick *manages to hug Vernon around the middle, dances off singing 'Don't Worry, Be Happy'*

Vernon *frozen to the spot* I was just hugged by a total stranger. And apparently I'm a Muggle, though I don't know what that is. Also, that guy had a squeaky voice. I wonder if he foreshadows anything.

For the first time ever in the history of ever: I sure as hell hope I'm imagining things.

*Pulls into driveway*

*Mood is not improved by seeing a tabby cat sitting on his garden wall, because all cats are horrid, so we can assume he is not a fan of cats, which is sad because cats are awesome*

Tabby *has markings around eyes, so maybe it's wearing glasses*

Vernon: Here, have a half-hearted attempt at banishing the cat though it appears to have stayed in the same five meters all day and not budged an inch, which tells me sending it away will be difficult at best. Shoo!

Tabby *does not move* I am LOOKING STERNLY at you.

Vernon *goes into house* I do not plan to ever tell Petunia about this nonsense, ever in the next five years or ever after that.

Petunia *has had a very boring day* And Neighbour #3 is having issues with her daughter; apparently the girl just _keeps asking questions!_

Vernon: Shocking! How _can_ she?

Petunia: And Dudders has learnt a lovely new word. Tell Daddy, Dudley.

Dudley: Shan't!

Vernon and Petunia *applaud, wiping away tears and getting out the camera*

Evening news: And bird-watchers have noticed owls everywhere. This map of Britain here shows where owls currently are; every second, of every minute, of every hour. Where they are, what they're doing, what they're thinking.

News reader: Flying. Walking. Pacing. They do that a lot.

Everyone ever: huh?

News reader: So weatherman Jim. Can we expect more owl showers?

Weatherman Jim: If that was a pun, Ted, it sucked. Majorly. But! During the day, instead of rain, we apparently had shooting stars, so I guess we have a lot of star-gazers around.

News reader Ted: Ruddy star-gazers.

Weatherman Jim: … Well anyway. Bonfire Night isn't for a week, and it seems that Guy Fawkes is sometimes referred to as Bonfire Night, because some members of the audience wondered about this for about a year before realizing that a week after Halloween is the night when people blow up fireworks and stuff which can look like shooting stars. Also tonight it's gonna rain, so stay indoors.

Vernon *is again frozen in place* All these goings-on. Stars! Owls! Cloaks O' Doom! _And a mention of the Potters!_

Petunia *walks in, holding two cups of tea*

Tea *apparently acts as a trigger for someone to suddenly begin spilling the beans when they previously decided to stay quiet and say nothing*

Vernon: Have you heard from your sister lately?

Petunia: Grrr. You know we pretend she doesn't exist, because we suck. No, I haven't. Also, what's with the questions?

Vernon: Weird things are going on all over the place; I thought it was to do with _her lot._ Notice how I'm not even brave enough to say the dreaded word.

Petunia *sips tea through pursed lips. Which is weird, because doesn't the phrase 'pursed lips' mean that a person is pressing their lips together quite firmly? So how does she manage to do so, unless she has a little straw or something in place?*

*Thinking* I will not mention the name Potter, I will not mention the name Potter.

Vernon *as casual/transparent as possible* their son… would he be about Dudley's age?

Petunia: Probably, I suppose.

*Bracing himself* what's the boy's name?

Petunia: Harry. I mean, common, nasty name despite the fact that the royal family has history of naming princes Harry and they don't just go and pick any new-fangled trendy name. No, they pick names with tradition and history and it could be argued that Harry is a nickname for Henry, who was a king centuries ago and didn't Shakespeare write plays on a King Henry?

Vernon's heart *sinks to his boots, assuming he is wearing boots* Oh bugger.

*upstairs*

Vernon *creeps stealthily to window to spy on cat; clearly the cat is another symbol of all things nefarious and mysterious and interesting*

Tabby *is still there* I's on your garden wall, staring down ze street as if waiting.

Vernon: I might not be imagining things after all. Damn.

Petunia *falls asleep quickly, lucky her*

Vernon: Well, there _are_ fifty-one Harry Potters in Britain. Even though Petunia only has the one sister, it doesn't affect us _at alllll._

*zzzzz*

Vernon *is oh so very wrong*

Tabby *must have had an energy drink or two, because it shows no signs of sleepiness despite sitting still all day*

*MIDNIGHT when all kinds of spooky crazy awesome stuff happens*

Tabby *twitches one paw*

More owls *swoopy swoop*

A man *appears*

The man *is not the kind of person ever to be on or near Privet Drive, ever. He wears a purple Cloak O' Doom. His name is Albus Dumbledore.*

Dumbledore *hunts through the Cloak O' Doom*

*looking up*

Tabby *is still doing starey eyes at Dumbledore*

Dumbledore: Hahaha, I should have known that the tabby cat that wears glasses would be here. *finds item that is not a cigarette lighter*

Item *is a pocket Dementor, but for lights*

Dumbledore *holds up item; it stares at each light bulb and sucks away the light, leaving the street so dark that even the beady eyes of Petunia would not be able to see a thing*

The street *is now very, very dark, apparently. Despite this Dumbledore manages to walk down the street, to where the cat is sitting, then sit down not on the cat, and greet it*

Dumbledore: Hello, Professor McTabby – I mean McGonagall. *turns to smile*

Tabby *is now a human woman, who wears glasses. She is wearing an emerald Cloak O' Doom, and the colour is a bit of foreshadowing*

Minerva: How did you know it was me?

Dumbledore: Well, for a start, no other cat has the ability to sit so statue-still for several hours. Then there's the fact that I coached you through the Animagus transformation, and would therefore presumably be able to recognize your non-human form. Besides that, I'm quite sure we agreed to meet here and so I figured you would not be inclined to sit here all day as a human. Too inconspicuous, whereas a cat could just be from Arabella's place and we all know she's a bit odd.

Minerva: I sat on this wall _all day._

Dumbledore: What, no going out and celebrating? Everyone in our world is celebrating, and despite the fact that I just materialized here like out of thin air, I somehow managed to pass dozens of feasts and parties.

Minerva: Oh yes, they're celebrating all right. No sense whatsoever, being completely conspicuous, even the Muggles have noticed. The ones who aren't morons are bound to notice something going on, I listened on the Muggle appliances that I appear to know about even though I probably spend my entire life in the wizarding world. Shooting stars… flocks of owls… flying pizzas that are being regarded as UFO's… tap-dancing flowerpots…

Dumbledore: Can't say I blame them. What else have we had to celebrate for the last eleven years?

Minerva: Grrr. If we must celebrate, can we at least do it with some level of decorum and being sensible? *looks at Dumbledore* I mean, at least try to dress in Muggle clothes and be a little more cautious of what we say? What would it be like if they found out about our world on the same day that You-Know-Who has vanished for good? _Is _he really gone?

Dumbledore: Probably. I'd say there's a ninety-nine percent chance. I mean, he _was_ a super-evil dark wizard, so I doubt he tried any kind of dark ritual to protect himself from death. Want a sherbet lemon?

Minerva: A _what?_

Dumbledore: It is a sherbet. That tastes like lemon. I like them.

Minerva *annoyed* is this really the time for sherbet lemons? Anyway, how can we be _sure_ that You-Know-Who is gone? I'm sure he did some horrible thing that no-one can imagine to protect himself from death.

Dumbledore: Yes. Also, call him _Voldemort._

Minerva: Meep.

Dumbledore: It's his proper name, even though it isn't the name he was given at birth, because who would name a baby Voldemort? Somehow it becomes confusing to refer to him all the time as You-Know-Who, though I can't see _how_ it would be confusing because we all know who it's referring to when we say it, because it's not like there's someone else we refer to as You-Know-Who. Actually, that's a pretty lucky thing when you think about it. Really, I don't see any reason to be frightened of the name Voldemort; it's not like he's going to leap up and bite you on the nose if you do say it.

Minerva: Yes, yes, I know. Then again, we all know that you're the only wizard he ever feared. Oh fine, the only one _Voldemort _ever feared *conjures mirror and checks nose*

Dumbledore *applauds* I'm flattered. He has powers I will never have. Like putting the pizza guy under a compulsion charm to get out of paying.

Minerva *eyeroll* it's only because you're too damned noble to do so.

Dumbledore *blushes* Rather pointlessly, I'm glad it's so dark you can't see me blushing. Apparently complimenting me on being noble is all someone needs to do to incite me to blush.

Minerva: Prat. So, you have actually _heard_ the rumours, yes? What everyone's saying about why he disappeared? *fixes Dumbledore with needle-sharp stare, piercing through his eyes to his soul and searching for the answer* I don't care what everyone in the world says. I want to hear it from you, or I won't believe a thing. Which is actually kind of sensible of me on one level, but how many rumours can I have heard, given I've been sitting here all day and it's not like there was a Cloaks O' Doom convention outside Number 4 Privet Drive? Anyway, they're _saying_ that Voldemort showed up in Godric's Hollow, looking for the Potters. Everyone's saying that James and Lily are _dead._

Dumbledore *nods solemnly*

Minerva *gasps* and we're celebrating… why?

Dumbledore: When you put it like that…

Minerva: That's not all of it though. They're saying that he killed two adults with no problem, but when he went to kill a baby with no sort of magical education or training whatsoever, something went wrong and screwed up Voldemort's power. That's why he's gone.

Dumbledore *nods glumly*

Minerva: So it's all true then? He's killed so many already, done so many horrible things, but couldn't kill a child? It's incredible, not even that meteor that one time managed to stop him, but how on earth did Harry survive?

Dumbledore: Probably I know, but have some nonsense about how we can only guess instead.

Minerva: All right. I did hear the one rumour, Lily transfigured him into a Chocolate Frog and then after she died, the cottage blew apart and crushed Frogemort.

Dumbledore: … I didn't mean you _actually_ had to guess. *takes out pocket watch, the face of which is a piece of sushi* Hagrid's late. I suppose he was the one who told you I'd be here?

Minerva: Well, yes. Have you met Hagrid? He couldn't keep a secret if the king of the leprechauns asked him to.

Dumbledore: True. Well anyway, I'm bringing Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're apparently his only relatives remaining.

Minerva: You are not serious. Not the people who live in this boring little place. Notice how even though we're apparently really good friends and you were once my teacher and I'm your deputy and stuff, I call you Dumbledore instead of Albus.

Dumbledore: I noticed.

Minerva: But these people are so unlike us in every possible way. I personally think the only way we're like them is that we're all human, and even then I have my doubts. Did you _see _the way they pander to their kid? He throws tantrums for the sake of sweets now; you can bet that in ten years he'll be throwing bigger and badder tantrums.

Dumbledore: Yeah, I realize all that. Still, these are his only relatives, and I've written a letter explaining everything so that in the future, they can tell Harry precisely nothing that he'll ever need to know.

Minerva *begins looking for an escape route; finding none, she does a shot of Firewhiskey and scowls at him* Allow me to explain the obvious of how people like them will never understand stuff about us or our world. I also need to take a moment to play foreshadowing fairy, because there'll be books about him and Halloween will be renamed Harry Potter Is Awesome Day, even though people are sensible enough to ensure that that never happens.

Dumbledore: Ob-viously. This kid's going to be crazy famous in ten years, so of course he should grow up completely removed from it all until the day he returns, only to be promptly overwhelmed with everything ever in our world.

Minerva *sulky* fine. So, how do you plan bringing him here?

Dumbledore: Did you not hear me when I said Hagrid's late?

Minerva: Yeah but I figured you were just saying random cryptic crap like you often do, I didn't figure it had any significance… Oh. You're having _him_ bring the boy here?

Dumbledore: Now you're getting it. Have a cookie.

Minerva: No, thank you. I mean, Hagrid does have a good heart, but he can be reckless. I hope he doesn't do anything somewhat insane like using a flying motorcycle to get here, with Harry Potter.

Flying motorcycle *falls out of the air to land in front of #1 Privet Drive denting the ground, skids fifty metres, leaving tire marks along the path and comes to a stop, knocking Minerva's glasses askew and ruffling Dumbledore's beard*

Minerva: Oh bugger.

Hagrid *is a very large guy, so never get on his wrong side lest he put you up a tree with no apparent means of getting down*

Dumbledore: Hagrid. WHERE. HAVE. YOU. BEEN. No note, motorcycle flying! You could have been seen!

Hagrid: By whom, all the sleeping Muggles who'd never think to look into the sky for a flying motorcycle, and even if they did see it would probably just think it was a streetlight or plane light or something? Duh.

Dumbledore: Right, right. Where did you get said motorcycle?

Hagrid: Sirius Black loaned it to me. Here's Harry. The house was a wreck, and then Muggles descended for some reason, but we got out before that. He fell asleep somehow, which is something of a miracle on a flying motorcycle.

Minerva, Dumbledore *bend forward to look at the baby* Aw.

Minerva: That cut, is it where - ?

Dumbledore: Somehow I know that it is, which could be part of what gives rise to the parts of the audience who think I'm a manipulative evil sod. But yes.

Minerva: Again with calling you Dumbledore. You're the most awesome wizard ever to walk the earth. Can you do something about it?

Dumbledore: Like what, Episkey? Nah. Scars can come in handy. Here, look at this scar _I_ have of the London Underground. Not sure when I ever go to or use the London Underground, but still.

Minerva: … In what way then, is that scar useful?

Dumbledore: Hey, buggered if I know. I'm just saying stuff. Well Hagrid, let me take him. *Takes Harry, few steps toward the Dursley house*

Hagrid: Can I just say goodbye? *Kisses Harry's head, sobs*

Minerva: Oh hush. We mustn't be heard or seen by Muggles.

Hagrid: What are you, made of stone? Two of our best former students are dead, and their son is off to live with Muggles who won't understand a bean about our world.

Minerva: No, I'm not happy about it either. I'm just going to wait until I get home, and then be unhappy about it all.

Hagrid: Fair enough then.

Dumbledore *steps over the garden wall which must be exceptionally low, like maybe a foot high, because he's fairly old and one assumes not extremely agile, but he's a wizard so who knows. Deposits baby Harry on the doorstep; does not appear to be casting any kind of protective charms or anything to stop him getting cold, because November in England is probably not the warmest month*

Minerva *furiously blinky eyes*

Dumbledore's eyes *are not twinkly twinkle stars*

Dumbledore: Well, we have no business staying here. None of us should watch over the place to make sure Harry stays safe, and I don't appear to have put up any kind of charms that will let me know if something goes wrong. Let's go celebrate, because right now we kind of suck.

Hagrid: I have to take back this bike anyway. Goodnight, people I should've lost some modicum of respect for tonight.

Dumbledore: See you when I see you, Minerva. *nods to her; salutes and clicks heels together three times*

Minerva: I am being human and caring right now, so what you said.

Dumbledore *turns and walks away a little bit; pauses at the corner*

Pocket Dementor for Lights: I is clicking.

Twelve Spheres of Light: We is zooming back home. *settle in with books, blankets and hot chocolate*

Privet Street *is suddenly and completely not-suspiciously re-lit, even though maybe two or so hours have passed*

Tabby *slinks slinkily down the street, around the corner*

Dumbledore: Good luck, Harry. Yeah, right now I _really_ suck. *turns on heel, vanishes*

A breeze: This hedge annoyed me the other day, so now's my chance to get payback. *Ruffles*

Hedge: Not my foliage you bitch!

Harry *sleeps on, innocent and unknowing*

*the next morning*

Petunia *opens door and screams, because nothing is more terrifying than a sleeping baby bundled up in blankets*

Dudley *even as a one-year-old, sucks*

In secret: To Harry Potter – the boy who lived! *raise glasses which shatter and become windchimes*


End file.
